Here, once a tree stood.
All the artistry can't bring life.
It's wilted to wood.
Fawn hunted for sport,
designs the living-
pleasure from innocent source.
Sun draws the nature,
waltzes over the deep sea.
Moon shades the picture.
In this intriguing nest
am I a miscreant,
stemming the growth of colourful eggs?
We fail to see the paint.
The stroke of His brush
imbibed in each space.
